"Goodbye, Syria."

Mia leaned against the doorframe to the room. "You crazy kids will figure it out," she said, lifting a bottle of water to her lips and taking a long drink.

Syria fell back on the bed, wrapped in the comforter. Maybe. It seemed the two of them ran hot and cold all the time, and now it was dead winter, the coldest time of the year.

6: The Search After Mia left, Syria pulled herself together and dressed in some sweats, planning to eat ice cream and Photoshop belly bulges all day, a combination that never failed to fill her with irony.

But when she sat at her computer with her pint of Blue Bell, instead of opening images, she clicked on Google search and for the hundredth time since her mother had given her the sheaf of letters from her father, typed in his name.

The same set of links came up as always. This time she clicked on the image search, studying the faces for any resemblance to herself. Most were young men, many babies. Tons of images of a handsome Indian actor came up, although she wasn't sure why, since his name was completely different.

Her breath stopped short at the sight of a gray-haired man shown in profile. Arnav Sharma would be over fifty years old by now, and probably not on many social networks, if any. She clicked on the image, but it linked to the page of a young man again, apparently sharing an image of his grandfather, who had a different name.

Syria closed the link. She had no idea how wired India was, if the older generations there were any more or less active on the internet than here. Her own mother did not own so much as a laptop, and if you mentioned Facebook or Twitter, she stared at you blank-eyed. Her father might be no different.

Most of the twenty-year-old letters her other had given her had no return addresses. Arnav had not wanted any responses, except for the one - an exuberant note that his wife was leaving him, a last hurrah before the final door slammed shut. Shortly after her threat to leave, the wife had changed her mind, telling him that if he claimed his b.a.s.t.a.r.d daughter, he would never see his other children again.

So Syria's father cut off all contact with her and her mother, unwilling to trade the unknown daughter for his sons.

But the happy letter was the one that had the most information. A phone number and an address. Syria had checked both. The phone number was now a.s.signed to a pizzeria. And the address had been bulldozed in 2003. But still. It was a way to narrow down her Arnav Sharma from all the others. When he'd written that letter, Syria was eight, some seventeen years ago, and electronic databases already existed. Surely someone somewhere had a record and could get her another piece of the puzzle, a forwarding address, a government connection to some identifier. She couldn't afford a private investigator, but she had time. In January, she'd have even more.

Syria was even more bleary-eyed when her studio line rang a few hours later. She should have slept some. She answered with false pep, bracing herself for an anxious client who wanted her Christmas gift ready now. "This is Syria."

"Syria McMillan. The photographer." The low voice wasn't asking a question, but rumbled through the receiver as a statement of fact.

"Yes, this is she." Syria's heart sped up a little. She knew this voice.

"We met recently. At an exhibition."

Syria swallowed. "Is this Erik?" Her voice wavered a bit.

"You have an excellent memory. I hope this means I made an impression." His voice flowed like silk, and the way he talked made her picture the syllables against her skin.

As if knowing the direction her thoughts had gone, her cell phone lit up on her desk, but only the first few notes of "Santa Baby" played before she silenced it. Tyson picked the darnedest times to call.

"Can I help you?"

"I would like to book a session with you."

"I'm actually done with sessions until after the holidays. It gets a little crazy this time of year."

"It's not for a gift, so I would not rush your work."

Syria hesitated. This man had seen her have s.e.x with another woman on stage. He might have the wrong idea about her. "Can it wait for January then?" Maybe he would hire someone else.

"I have an a.s.sociate about to leave my company. I would like a photograph before the contract is over."

"So, a business head shot then?" She relaxed. She could probably work in something as simple as that.

"Not quite. I sensed that you might be willing to do some nontraditional work."

He probably wanted to have s.e.x with his "a.s.sociate" on camera. She got calls like this all the time, as if boudoir somehow mean p.o.r.n.

"You know, I don't think I'm your girl," Syria said. "I'm sure I appeared to be pretty open to things on stage, but actually I keep my business and my pleasure pretty separate." Except for Mia, she thought, remembering her contortionist shoot. And Tyson, of course, the shoot that started it all. Erik didn't need to know about that. "I could maybe give you a referral."

"I'm willing to pay you well for this."

"It's not really about price."

"Ten thousand dollars."

Syria gripped the phone. "Wh-what?"

"Is that sufficient for the shoot? I am willing to pay much more for the images."

Syria hesitated. That much money meant a plane ticket to Seattle to see Tyson. And maybe even one to India, if she got the chance.

"So I have your attention," Erik said. "How about I send you ten thousand now, and and another five thousand on the day of the shoot, as a deposit for the prints?" His voice was still smooth, with not trace of smugness or anything but a business transaction taking place.

"When were you thinking of coming in?"

"My a.s.sociate will be with me two more weeks."

"So nights, weekend? Week day?"

"I think we can accommodate most times."

Syria grabbed her schedule from beneath a pile of print outs. "So, Thursday, maybe?"

"Certainly. Midafternoon?"

"Three o'clock. That works. Should I send you directions?"

"I know where you are, Syria."

Her belly quivered. Who was this man? "Should we do a consultation? What sort of clothing? Style? Backgrounds?"

"I leave it all in your very capable hands. The girls will bring a sufficient wardrobe for contingencies, plus a stylist. We will make it come together."

"All right," Syria said. "I'll set up something cla.s.sic."

"Perfect. See you in a few days. A courier will arrive in a few hours with the fee."

The line went dead.

Syria stared at the phone. She knew the men at that exhibition had to be powerful and wealthy. She was about to find out exactly how much.

7: The Shoot Tyson had been impressed when she told him about the shoot. Syria sent him a snapshot of the cashier's check for ten thousand dollars. She didn't mention that she'd met the man before, just that he'd been referred. This small deceit settled like a black s.p.a.ce beneath her heart. Somehow, she knew there was more to this than just photography.

She fretted over every detail the day of the shoot, straightening her shelves, shoving the boxes of prints and proofs into another room. With the extra money, she'd splurged on a rush job for a hand-painted backdrop that suggested a French bordello, just enough s.e.xy to set your mind the right direction if the subjects where posed for it, but also very cla.s.sic if the shoot was more traditional. She'd wanted a background like this for a long time, but couldn't justify the expense.

When the doorbell chimed, Syria nearly jumped out of her skin. Her belly fluttered with nerves. In addition to the drop, she'd bought the most amazing pair of distressed leather ballerina slippers that felt like she was wearing nothing at all, so that she wouldn't feel the urge to shoot barefoot as she normally did. It seemed too informal for a session like this.

She opened the door and suppressed sucking in a breath at Erik, dressed as perfectly as he had been at the exhibition, a three-piece suit immaculately tailored and fitted to his broad shoulders and tall frame.

Syria swallowed. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Andrada." Behind him were several women, all stunningly beautiful, one blonde and two with dark, exotic features.

He took her hand. "Erik, please. It is such a pleasure to see you again." He lifted the back of her hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he kissed it as if meeting her was the most treasured moment of his life.

Syria's heart beat faster. Everything about this man was geared toward trusting him, falling under his spell.

She stepped aside to let the group in. A young man came up the sidewalk, pushing a rolling wardrobe box. The blond woman paused to make sure he made it up the stairs. "We brought plenty of options," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Elise, the stylist. I prepared their hair and makeup in advance, but we wanted to see your vision before choosing outfits."

"Okay." Syria didn't know what else to say. She felt like she should have a.s.sistants, a team maybe, for a shoot like this. Lots of photographers charged fees like the one Erik had offered, but they usually had some staff. At least this group had brought their people along. She didn't know which one was the a.s.sociate she was photographing. The two dark-haired women had the same slightly aloof demeanor, the way she imagined professional models to be.

Syria moved along the hallway. "This way." Erik followed her, and she now saw her rented house through his eyes, banged-up wallpaper, scratched wood floors, inexpensive strip lighting for the images. He must wonder why he'd made such a leap of faith.

He paused before the image of a woman in white lingerie on a motorcycle, the same one that got Tyson's attention weeks ago. "Stunning. So you will shoot on location?"

"Yes, of course."

Erik nodded. "Excellent."

They entered the studio s.p.a.ce, and he glanced around, tapping a finger against his chin. "All very much in order."

Syria dashed around to the lights, switching them on. "I thought this might be a nice drop to start with, although if you'd rather keep it black or high key for simplicity..." She trailed off.

Erik watched her with his dark eyes beneath immaculately combed black hair and perfect eyebrows.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what I'm shooting," she said.

He smiled and once again Syria warmed over. What was so charming about this man?

"Let me introduce you to my a.s.sociates," Erik said. "First is Aliara. She is my slave."

Syria inhaled sharply at the word, but Erik went on, gesturing to the other girl. "And this is Malin, my submissive."

Syria looked from one woman to the other, beginning to pick out their discerning features. Aliara had longer hair, black and glossy, parted neatly down the middle to frame an oval face. She was slight, dressed in a black shift that accentuated her wraith-like body, not unlike the women Syria remembered from the bondage exhibition. She wore an unusual silver ring around her neck, fitted with an ornate series of loops.

Malin was perhaps a few years younger, early twenties, and wore a flowing silk sundress in a tawny gold. She was large-breasted but not otherwise curvy, her almond eyes emphasized by skillful makeup.

"h.e.l.lo," Syria managed to choke out, still wondering the difference between the two labels. She turned to Erik. "Will I be photographing them both?"

"Yes, in some instances. Aliara has come to the end of her contract with me, and is moving on. I am very sad to see her go."

The woman lowered her eyes, focusing on the wood floor. Erik touched a finger to her chin and brought it up again. "I thought I might like to capture some of my favorite things about her before she was gone."

Syria picked up her camera, fiddling with dials to avoid having to stare at the woman, who seemed perfectly nonchalant as this man talked about her. "So what sorts of things?"

Erik turned to her and placed his hand on the camera, stilling her nervous movements. "I know that you are probably thinking that in this modern day, we should not have women as slaves. And I am not overly fond of the word. It's just a common term in the BDSM community. Aliara is one of my favorite possessions, and I have treated her very well. She chose of her own free will to give up her life to me for a period of five years." He turned to look at the woman, who smiled at him now. "It's been a very good five years for us both."

Aliara nodded. "It has."

Syria startled a little to hear the girl speak. She had no understanding how these relationships worked. The only submissives she'd seen had been at the exhibition, and that had been in the context of the bondage show.

"So the stylist has some outfits for Aliara?" Syria said. "Maybe if I saw them, I'd get an idea of what we're going for."

"Absolutely." Erik turned to the blond woman, who was showing the boy where to place the wardrobe box. "Elise, show Syria what we brought along."

Malin stepped back to let Syria pa.s.s by to approach the wardrobe, a tall cherrywood box with ornate gold latches. Elise bent to pop them open, and the boy pulled the front cover aside.

Syria felt a little wave of shock at the contents. Hanging inside the door was an a.s.sortment of whips, floggers, paddles, and objects she couldn't identify. On a rack in the main section, several outfits in leather, some with solid pieces, and others with cutouts in intriguing places, shifted from side to side from the movement of the box.

"I think you may sense the direction the shoot is going now," Erik said.

"I do," Syria said.

Elise pulled out a drawer from the bottom of the box with professional detachment. "We also have some silks, a few bits of lingerie, and this." She unfolded a shiny vinyl body suit.

"I do hope we'll get one in the Ligne," Aliara said.

Syria whirled around. "The Ligne?"

Elise rummaged in the drawer. "It's a ballet term. I have the shoes." She pulled out a pair of silver heeled shoes so high that it would not be possible to walk in them. The feet went straight up, like a ballerina on pointe. Elise pushed aside a solid leather dress to reveal a soft pink, almost completely sheer corset with silver laces. "Here's the top." She shifted through the lingerie. "And here's the bottom." She held up a sc.r.a.p of pink silk on a silver wire.

Syria couldn't even imagine wearing something like that.

Aliara stepped forward to touch the tinsel-thin thong. "Can we shoot that one, Erik? I'd love to have a print of it."

Erik bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Of course. And the outfit goes with you. I cannot imagine anyone else wearing it."

Aliara reached for one of his hands and squeezed it. "Thank you."

"Why don't we start with that?" Erik said. "Elise, can you prep Aliara?"

"Of course."

"There's a dressing room just around the corner," Syria said. Elise and Aliara disappeared that direction. "Anything you want to do while we wait?"

Erik turned to Malin. "Yes, I love this dress on her. Can we do a few like that?"

"Absolutely." She led Malin to the center of the set to a Queen Anne chair that matched the French-styled drop. "Sit here, cross your ankles, and lean on the arm."

Malin lowered herself primly onto the cushion, but when her eyes lifted to the camera, the expression was pure s.e.x. The heat of it bolted straight through Syria, and she tightened her grip.

A quick glance at Erik confirmed that he was cool as always, seemingly unaffected. Syria took a couple test shots, then adjusted the lights. As she pa.s.sed Malin, she tugged on the hem of the flowing skirt, making sure it didn't gather or crinkle.